The Long Way Home
by LovelyFangirls
Summary: You should know, that I take pride in the fact I am a perfectly sane human being. I know reality from dream and hallucination from hard evidence. I fought in the war, and nothing I could see could possibly be enough to put me into shock. I figured this was the best way to go out with a bang. My name is John Watson, and this is the story of how I fell in love with Sherlock Holmes.
1. Entry 1

You should know, that I take pride in the fact I am a perfectly sane human being. I wake up in the morning and eat breakfast. I watch the news, or read the paper. I'm pretty normal actually, apart from my leg. I have a limp, though I've been told it's not real, that I made it up in my head. I fought in the war. I was shot. I take pride in the fact that I know what's real and what's not. I'm as I've said before, a perfectly sane human being. The story I plan on telling you can be beyond some person's comprehension. To those people; because you can't comprehend the brilliance of one man doesn't make the stories false. It's doesn't make the man a fake. I'll remind you once more, I am a perfectly sane human being. You could never convince me otherwise. I want to tell you about Sherlock Holmes. Yes, the same man you read about in the papers. The one that jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The same mad genius that could tell you your entire life story by getting a thirty second look at your mobile. I'd know because it happened to me. As a final reminder, I know reality from dream and hallucination from hard evidence. I fought in the war, and nothing I could see could possibly be enough to put me into shock. There's no other way around it, I saw what I saw and I know what I know. Blog's are a tedious thing, but I figured it was best to go out with a bang. So, I'll introduce myself on a final note.

My name is john Watson, and this is the story of how I fell in love with Sherlock Holmes


	2. Entry 2

I first met Sherlock on a damp day in the middle of a laboratory. It was stuffed with test tubes and odd colored liquid, there were all sorts of things stick out in piles, strange experiments and an old mate from school at my side. I was looking for a flat mate, nothing fancy, but someone I could live with to help cheapen the rent and still live in a fairly nice spot. My mate said he'd introduce me to a fellow. That man was Sherlock. He had raven curls and cheeks bones like none I'd ever seen before. The man was tall, he had a few good inches on me, and I'd be daft if I said he wasn't handsome.

I let him borrow my phone for a moment. Maybe it was a mistake, but I think I know it wasn't. The first question he asked, just three words, but enough shock to send me back a moment. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked, as if it were the most ordinary question in the world.

"Excuse me?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he repeated.

"Afghanistan... how did you-"

He then began telling me my life's story, listing how the scratches in my phone told him it was handed down, from a drinker. Harry Watson, relative, then. A drunk relative hand me down, mobile, meaning to stay in touch. He doesn't want to stay in touch? Probably a sibling then. The man talked and talked, almost as if his mouth was running in time with his brain. John was astonished.

The next few days consisted of checking out the lovely new rooms in flat 221B baker street. Mrs. Hudson, our new land lady, was pleasant and kind. She had tiny and wrinkled features as well as a heartwarming smile. She made us giggle more times then I could possibly count. Speaking of giggling, we did that a lot. I remember cupping my hand over my mouth in an attempt to hold down my laugher with Sherlock. "Sherlock we can't giggle it's a crime scene!" I chuckled.

There were lots of cases we went on. If you've read any of my previous blog entrees then you'll know. There were hundreds of cases, all brilliant. A study in pink, the aluminum crutch, the speckled blonde, Reichenbach, the hound of Baskerville, and numerous others. I guess you could say, I was his assistant. He used to taunt and tease, "I'd be lost without my blogger." while I badgered him about his _own_ website, where the highlight was his 240 types of tobacco ash. Oh wait, 243.

He was always like that, I don't even know how to describe it. I think he called himself, "a highly functioning sociopath."

For the longest time, it was just me and my sociopath... and then the woman came.

The Woman, Miss Irene Adler, was an opposing person in one of our cases. My first impression of her was walking in on a naked figure sitting in the chair across from Sherlock. Of course, the sight of a completely nude woman took me off guard. Sherlock gave me a dismissive signal and I was shooed. I guess she's more where it started, but it started even before I or Sherlock met her. You see, there was a case.

* * *

"Sherlock..." John groaned before slapping the alarm over his bed. "We need to get up."

The seemingly dead body beside him stirred, rolling over to face him. "I don't feel like it. I'm staying here. You should too."

"Sherlock!" John whined, "We told them we'd check out the crime scene today. No ifs ands or buts." John stated before rolling out of bed.

Sherlock didn't budge. So, John packed his laptop into his bag and hailed a cab, cursing under his breath. The ride was long and tedious, but John fired up the computer, mentally prepared to close it right away. John was greeted upon arrival, "Ah yes, Sherlock Holmes."

"John Watson, are... you set up for Wi-Fi?" he asked, pulling the laptop out of the car. "Sherlock you do realize this is a tiny bit humiliating?"

"It's okay I'm fine." Sherlock answered through the screen. "Show me the grass."

"I didn't really mean for you."

"Look, this is a six, I told you this morning that I wouldn't be leaving the flat for anything less than a seven."

"Why are _you_ the one who stays home for recovery?" John barked, "Shouldn't it be the other way aroun-" John stopped himself mid sentence, realizing he was getting a funny look from the cop standing beside him.

"I was very worn out and it wasn't enough to make me want to leave-"

"Alright Sherlock shut up." John interrupted.

* * *

We continued examining the scene, Sherlock showing off whenever possible and pissing off everyone within a five mile radius, including a radius of the laptop. We continued like that until a man came into the screen, shutting the cover and cutting connection. Then the helicopter came for me. I do remember my heart racing as I stared down at Buckingham Palace.

I was greeted in a spacious room by none other then my flat-mate, who was still wearing nothing other than his sheet. The same sheet stained with... well... I asked him if he was wearing any pants, but I most certainly did _not_ blush when he replied with a serious no.

Then we broke out into a fit of giggles, unable to control ourselves.

* * *

"I am seriously fighting the urge to steal an ash tray!" John chuckled, clearing his throat before he attempted to talk again. "What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously what? Are we here to see the queen?"

Mycroft, the elder Holmes, walked in casually at this time, "Apparently, yes."

* * *

I remember dying right there on the queen's couch, laughter threatening to split my belly open. Mycroft tried to tame us but we were too far gone. Eventually, an employee to the queen walked in, calming us down a bit. Sherlock was given the case, and we started work.

I remember laughing to myself as Sherlock tossed numerous different disguises throughout the room, claiming he needed to find his battle armor. I didn't even know he had so many goon get-ups. He finally found the one he wanted. Apparently, Sherlock was about to become a priest. He suited himself up and I followed gladly. I was eager for another adventure with Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Entry 3

The case was the retrieval of photographs, ones compromising to the most powerful family in Britain. She didn't want any money, simply a power play. I remember how intrigued Sherlock was when he met the woman. I remember hating her. The way she flirted, thankfully only at Sherlock. He never replied. She was a mystery to him, which only furthered the depths of his curiosity. Damn her. He tried to impress her, which was his downfall. She was a set up, a trap, a trick. She played Sherlock like he played his violin. You see, Irene Adler was working for a dangerous man, Sherlock's nemesis you could say in fact. Jim Moriarty.

Moriarty was a sick and twisted man, probably what Sherlock would be if I hadn't been around to smack him upside the head when he insulted someone or was insensitive. Sherlock would probably be just as bad if he didn't have a guided hand. A lot of things would be different.

Moriarty had a spider's web strung all throughout the system of Britain. He had hands in numerous cookie jars and many flies tangled in his threads. Sherlock was determined to defeat the monster. Sherlock starting coming to bed less and less, sitting up all night at his desk, shuffling through multi-colored papers and fiddling away on his mobile. It was like the work had consumed him.

He rarely ate, barely slept, and refused to change into suitable clothes unless absolutely necessary. He spent about three days in his blue robe. I'd like to say I snapped him out of it, that we made up from our fights over the subject and had delicious make up sex, but that's not what happened. If fact we fought time after time. I always lost. You can't make 'the great' Sherlock Holmes do anything he doesn't want to. Until one day, I just got fed up with it.

* * *

"Look Sherlock," John ordered, "You need to eat something. You haven't had a bite all day."

"I'm not hungry." the detective groaned from his position on the couch.

"At least drink something then?" John begged.

"Not thirsty."

"God damn it Sherlock!" John barked, "You're loosing it. Aren't you just deteriorating here?"

"I need to figure out how to defeat-"

"Screw Moriarty!" John interrupted, "Get ahold of yourself already!"

Sherlock sat up, his elbows on his knees. "What's the matter."

John was silent for a while before retreating to the kitchen and quietly returning with a glass of water. "Please, Sherlock. At least drink a little bit. Otherwise you're going to kill yourself." John frowned.

Sherlock just sat back against the leather, shaking his head. So, John did the next best thing. He took a swig of the water into his mouth and walked over to Sherlock, who shot him a questioning glace. It wasn't until John settled himself in Sherlock's lap that things took a turn. "John, what're you-"

He was cut off by the sudden contact of lips. Sherlock rested his hands on the man's lower back, filling up with John's kiss. Traces of water dripped from the crevices of their mouths and John pushed it down Sherlock's throat. The detective swallowed after a short protest, and the little man drew back, admiring his quick thinking. "That was sneaky." Sherlock grinned devilishly.

"You weren't going to drink it otherwise." John shrugged.

He reached behind him for the water glass on the table and took another swig, which was accepted a little easier then the first time. They went on like this until the glass was nearly empty. John smiled to himself. "There. Was that so hard?"

"When you put it that way..." Sherlock retorted.

John planted another quick peck on Sherlock's lips before starting to climb off. His hips however, were caught and held in place. Strong hands gripped at his jumper with cocky confidence. "Where are you going?" the detective asked.

* * *

Now I've said it before, I am _not_ gay. I swear to you, I like women, and the thought of sleeping with men is sort of a turn off, but being with Sherlock was an entirely different matter. It's as if it was only him that I liked the idea of, not necessarily male or female, but Sherlock.

We were together for a while, much to the pleasure of the fangirls that plagued the internet with their sick fantasies. When Sherlock became famous, it became popular assumption that he and I were together. I guess it was a sort of subliminal advertising, the more a thought is put into your head, the easier it is to believe.

I'm not going to spill every detail of my sex life for your entertainment I'll have you know. It wasn't as if we did it on a regular basis, but each time was, or at least felt magical. That probably sounds stupid and cheesy, but somewhere in the drabble of cases and the excitement of catching a killer, I fell in love with the tall, showoff. I think I may have first realized I had feelings for him when we took on the case you know as 'a study in pink'. The cereal killer, a little old, seemingly innocent cabbie, had gotten to Sherlock. I remember feeling my heart pound in my head as I ran through the massive building, vainly searching for my flat-mate.

When I found him, he was probably about to die. I couldn't even think, I just... pulled the trigger.

* * *

"Good shot." Sherlock grinned.

"Yes, yes whoever shot that was... umm..." John babbled, trying to cover his tracks.

but Sherlock already knew it was him, "John."

John turned to face Sherlock, "Mmh?"

"Thank you."

John grinned to himself, "You're welcome."

* * *

I think that moment was when I realized it. I'd realized that I'd fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Entry 4

More restless nights and a constantly empty stomach was all Sherlock had now, his brain hitting a brick wall in his case against Moriarty. I often caught him pulling at his curls and groaning in irritation. It wasn't the usual Sherlock. He spent weeks like that, refused to sleep, rarely ate or drank... Even my desperate attempts didn't help much, he was gradually deteriorating. I starting eating less as well, more because I didn't have an appetite anymore. I was slowly loosing Sherlock, and it made me uncomfortable as well as depressed.

* * *

"Sherlock, come on." John begged, setting a tray of biscuits on the table over a massive pile of papers, "You need to eat something."

"I ate yesterday." Sherlock replied, not bothering to look up from his file.

"No!" John barked, "You didn't!"

Sherlock paused momentarily to look up at him, "Not hungry."

"I don't care! You're going to kill yourself!" he was yelling now.

The detective stood abruptly, "Look, Moriarty has a string of connections throughout the city, as he said, he's a spider." he stalked slowly around the table until John could feel the man's angry breath, "I _need_ to take him down."

"Sherlock-"

"It's nearly dinner, you should get yourself something to eat before nightfall." he groaned, looking over to window, and more importantly, away from John.

"Not hungry either."

"Fine." Sherlock rustled through a few more papers before settling on the couch once more, a fresh file in hand, "Go to bed or something, leave me alone."

John glared viciously before turning on his heel and heading for his room. "Goodnight!" he exclaimed in a rather angered tone, slamming his bedroom door behind him as he shouted.

Sherlock turned his head to face the door before muttering to himself, "Goodnight John..."

* * *

It hurt a lot to be neglected. The case ran for nearly a year before Sherlock started distracting himself with other odds and ends. A dead woman who apparently chopped her own head off; murder. A man who committed suicide in a restraint; murder. Various cases to keep his attention away. I begged Lestrade to give Sherlock any cases he could possibly find. We went on like that for months on end, until finally... Sherlock cracked the Moriarty case.

* * *

"Found him!" Sherlock screeched, leaping off the couch and over to John, who sat at the now empty kitchen counter. After nearly two years of distraction, Sherlock hadn't even noticed when John cleared the counter of his test tubes and coils. The flat almost looked normal, in exception to the stacks of files on the table in the front room. "Y-You-" John blubbered, "You found him? You found Moriarty?"

Sherlock grinned before grabbing John's face and forcing an excited kiss on him. "I am on fire!" he praised himself gleefully.

He shrugged into his coat and skillfully knotted his scarf, files in hand. John struggled to keep up with the man's excitement, flinging on his own jacket and struggling to button it as he followed Sherlock down the stairs and onto the street.

* * *

We took the files to Lestrade, who followed Sherlock just as quickly as I always do. Sherlock had been right, Moriarty was easier to catch then we'd expected it to be. The officers shoved him into the back of a barred car and drove off. It was finally over. Things would return to normal after the trial. The jury would convict Moriarty and the crook would be locked away. I wanted to celebrate by making Sherlock come out to eat with me, start his eating again.

I didn't expect the jury to let him go, and Moriarty's visit even less. That disgusting man was sitting in our flat, drinking tea from our cups as if it were a casual get together. When he smiled, I knew it was all wrong. See, he threatened all of the jury. He controlled the system. A spider with it's massive web, tugging the strings to control his various puppets. I wanted normal back, and this man was threatening that.

Scandals rose up as Moriarty claimed it was all an act, that Sherlock had paid him, an actor, to _pretend_ to be Moriarty. It wasn't true! I knew that, and Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, surely the others- The papers covered it. It was on the news, people whispered over it in the streets. I wanted to kill Moriarty. Donavan and Anderson accused Sherlock of tampering with all the cases. Every case?! As if Sherlock had invented everything that he ever- I know it was all real, and I know he wasn't faking it, but everyone was against him. No one really knows what happened on that roof, but they found Jim sprawled out on the ground, a bullet in his head.

St. Bartholemew's Hospital. The place that I stood, crying as Sherlock spoke. The phone pressed against my ear was uncomfortable, and my tears were getting caught between it and my skin. I couldn't help but cry. I cried harder then I ever had in my life. Sherlock was standing there, right in front of my eyes. I could _see_ him! If- if I had just been a little bit faster maybe I could've- I know I could've saved him! I know it! but-

* * *

"SHERLOCK!" John screamed, half sobbing.

Sherlock's figure slipped from the ledge, falling and falling, then suddenly stopping. John could hardly see past his tears.

* * *

The crunch was loud enough for me to hear, and quickly, a crowd grew, pushing me away and grabbing at my arms as I tried desperately to reach Sherlock. I managed to wrap my hand around his wrist, praying, begging for a pulse. A doctor knows when there is a pulse, no mistake. But, when I searched for it, I started crying loudly and blubbering as a stranger held me. Some random person in the street.

I dropped Sherlock's wrist. There had been no pulse. Sherlock Holmes was dead.


	5. Entry 5

As I've said before, I take pride in the fact I am a perfectly sane human being. I know reality from dream and hallucination from hard evidence. I fought in the war, and nothing I could see could possibly be enough to put me into shock. I know you've already read these lines, maybe numerous times, but I just wanted to make absolutely sure that my point got across, because I figured this was the best way to go out with a bang. I believe my eyes, I've never hallucinated, other then being drugged at Baskerville, other then that my imagination isn't so desperate. So, you can imagine how I felt seeing Sherlock on the sidewalk today. He wasn't wearing his usual long jacket or purple scarf, but- the stubble didn't fool me either. It was him. It was my Sherlock standing across the street. When I caught his attention, he ran... why would he run? I was chasing after him before my brain had enough time to catch up with my legs. I darted across the street, nearly being hit by a few honking cars and a cab. Sherlock's long legs served him well, and I lost him.

I don't know if I should question myself anymore, but it was the man I loved! Or at least- I thought. However, when I came back home to my flat, I almost wasn't surprised to see him sitting there on the leather chair, leg over his knee, thick curls, and a slimming purple shirt. I blinked. Then I rubbed my eyes... but he was still sitting there, smiling at me. He stood and I nearly fell to the floor with fright.

* * *

"I-I-I'm seeing a ghost!" John stuttered, "It's a figment of my imagination."

"John..."

"I-It's my head playing tricks on me..."

"John."

"It's a prank! A stupid, stupid prank!"

"John!" Sherlock yelled, grabbing the man's shoulders and steadying him. "Calm down. It's me! Real, flesh and bone."

John wanted to cry, he wasn't sure exactly why, but... he... "but- but-" he blubbered, "I saw you jump and- you-you I took your pulse!"

"There's a special drug that when applied in the right locations will slow and or stop your pulse momentarily." Sherlock explained.

"The-the fall..."

"Homeless network staged it, I was caught as I fell, after the biker slammed into you. It was all staged John."

John felt the tears swelling in his ducts. "Wh-why? YOU BIG IDIOT! You staged it?" John was screaming now, sticky tears falling from his eyes, "You jerk!"

Sherlock took the slams to his chest as John cried and punched at him, not in an extremely painful way, but enough for Sherlock to get the point. Instead of backing away, Sherlock grabbed John, arms wrapped around him, the man's head tucked beneath his chin protectively, comfortingly. "It's okay John." he soothed, "It's all over now. It's okay. I promise."

* * *

I think I cried for hours, or at least long enough to pass out. I woke up in my bed, Sherlock lying beside me. I can't say it wasn't a miracle. I was happy enough to have him back, let alone sleeping. For a few minutes, I just lay there staring at the ceiling, alone with my thoughts. My psychiatrist thought that having a blog was a healthy way to get emotions out, so I thought I'd use it that way, rather then telling you all our cases like I usually do. I actually don't think I've even been online since the incident, since I thought Sherlock was dead.

When I say going out with a bang, I mean it. I want to just live life with Sherlock. I don't want to get caught up in anymore cases, or loose him for real next time. I just want him to stay with me, alive and well. Maybe I can convince him to become a scientist. That would satisfy his sociopathic lust. If anyone out there stopped believing in Sherlock, thought he was a fraud and killed himself because of shame or- whatnot. Think of it as him taking a detour to get home to me. He just took the wrong route and it ended up taking him a few years. I love Sherlock Holmes, I want live out my days with him. It was a long way home, and now I just want him and I to be happy. I can't loose him again, even if its fake.

End.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked rubbing his eyes as he walked out from John's bedroom, blue robe and all.

"I'm just retiring I guess." John replied, smiling to himself.

"Retiring?"

"I'm going to stop blogging."

Sherlock didn't speak for a few minutes, "Then who's going to inflict their opinions on the world?"

John giggled, "Someone else can do that. I just want to keep you out of danger."

The detective frowned, "Me?"

"Yes idiot! Don't forget that in my eyes you died!" John shut the laptop and stood," That's never happening again."

"John..."

"Please Sherlock. I-I just can't bear to loose you like tha-"

John was interrupted by Sherlock's lips on his, a passionate frenzy unfolding as Sherlock squeezed John, hugging him in a needy fashion. I'd like to say they stayed kissing feverishly until one was desperate for air, but that's not what happened. Sherlock and John were in an embrace, John's head tucked into Sherlock's neck as the long arms looped around his back. They'd share light kisses now and again, but John could hardly every bring himself to let go and pull back. Maybe they could just stand there all day like that.

"Sherlock..."

"Yes?"

"I love you."

Sherlock stilled, almost in a paralyzed sense before pulled back and staring at John, his expression seemingly stunned. "You do?"

"Of course!" John pecked another light kiss on the man's lips. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well... considering that I-"

"Sherlock." John frowned, "Just shut up and kiss me."


End file.
